


pigfoot and a bottle of beer

by hardlythewiser (sequinedfairy)



Category: Bon Appétit Test Kitchen (Web Series)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 10:54:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22568920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sequinedfairy/pseuds/hardlythewiser
Summary: “Just come back to mine,” Andy says, offer tripping out before he thinks it through. Brad won’t even fit on his vintage couch.
Relationships: Brad Leone/Andy Baraghani
Comments: 50
Kudos: 99





	pigfoot and a bottle of beer

**Author's Note:**

> please keep it secret, keep it safe. this is all about my personal needs n projections and NOT about the real people as you all know. we're all just having fun here.
> 
> title from bessie smith
> 
> thank u as always to grace n molly

It starts in the walk-in pantry. 

It’s not sanitary, not at all, but Brad was brewing beer, and Andy was sticking around to film with him, who knows why. He’d just gotten gay-dumped (two texts left on read, ignored at a sex party) by someone he actually liked, who he’d let come on his face, who he’d considered letting fuck him bare, and now his whole studio was haunted with vaguely humiliating memories. So when Brad said, at their weekly meeting, that he might need someone to stick around and brew with him, Andy’d said sure, why not. Brad had flashed him a delighted smile, and Andy had refused to think about how flushed and pleased it made him feel.

So they brew, and something goes wrong, and they brew again, and something goes wrong again, and then it’s ten and they’re breaking out the emergency cocktail supplies, sitting on the counter, laughing their asses off. Andy makes them fancy shit, rosemary sprigs and homemade bitters, and as he shakes it, showing off a little, Brad glances at him, raises his eyebrows. “You been working out, Baraghani?” Brad asks.

“You know it,” Andy says, trying not to let himself feel so pleased. Brad’s a fucking bro, and Andy’s still chasing his approval. Gross.

Tim and Lucy start packing up the sound and lights; they’re not gonna get anything else from tonight, but Brad’s still gotta stay here, check on his brew, and Andy’s perched on the counter, already kinda drunk. He and Brad are fighting about how little Brad knows about Madonna, Andy playing him snippets of different songs, Brad laughing as he claims he’s never heard it. Andy shrieks as Brad claims he doesn’t know “Hung Up,” and Brad doubles over, hand on Andy’s knee. It burns through Andy’s jeans, and Andy keeps himself carefully still. 

“Fuck,” Brad says, catching his breath, glancing at his watch. Andy hates that he knows when Brad got that watch, how he feels about the disappearance of analog clocks. “It’s gonna be like an eighty dollar cab ride back to Jersey.”

“Just come back to mine,” Andy says, offer tripping out before he thinks it through. Brad won’t even fit on his vintage couch. 

“You sure?” Brad asks, and Andy swallows.

“Yeah,” he says. “No point going back to Jersey, Leone.”

“Thanks,” Brad says, smiling at Andy, shining up at him. 

“Let’s go steal some snacks from the pantry,” Andy says, to break the moment. “I don’t have good shit in my apartment.”

Brad nods, holding his hand to help Andy down from the counter. Andy ignores it, but he overbalances as he hops down and Brad is right there, gentle hand on the small of his back as he steadies his wrist. Fucking hell. Andy shakes him off, strides to the cabinet, hears Brad’s heavy footsteps behind him. 

Andy’s reaching for the banana chips on the top shelf -- why is all the good shit always on the top shelf? These fucking wasps -- when Brad’s hand reaches easily, the heat of his chest radiating towards Andy’s back. Andy spins, and Brad’s looking down at him, gaze falling on his mouth. Andy parts his lips, suddenly unable to breathe in anything but the smell of Brad’s body, fresh and clean and stupidly musky, fucking woodsmoke and whatever hetero bullshit he puts on. 

Andy tilts his head up, and Brad drops the chips on the ground, leans down and kisses Andy.

The kiss tastes of hops and jerky, the Thai they ordered for dinner, but mostly of the addictive taste of Brad. Andy gasps into the kiss, and Brad pushes him up against the shelf, knocking over something that clatters but doesn’t break. Andy wraps his thigh around Brad, and Brad groans, running his hand up Andy’s thigh.

“Jesus, baby,” Brad says, and Andy can’t fucking deal with being called baby like he’s Brad’s high school girlfriend on prom night. He reaches his hand up, knocks off Brad’s stupid cap and slides his hand into his hair, tuggling a little. Brad groans, a little surprised, thumb stroking Andy’s hipbone under his shirt.

They make out until the automated light turns off, and in the dark, Andy’s brave enough to say, “My place?”

Brad nods against his neck, mouth open, biting down just a little as Andy squirms. They stumble out of the closet, blinking at the sudden brightness of the test kitchen. The darkness outside the floor to ceiling windows makes it feel like a little island in the sky, a fairytale. Andy bends over to get his bag, and when he stands up, Brad looks a little shifty, clearly was checking out his ass. 

Good. Andy works fucking hard on that ass.

Andy bumps his hip into Brad, smirking, and Brad spins them around, presses Andy against the window and folds himself in half to bite Andy’s collarbones. Andy’s head falls back against the window, helpless, and Brad trails thorough kisses up his neck, on his stubble and his Adam’s apple, until Andy’s whining for him to kiss his mouth already. He can’t think about what they look like from the outside, if any other poor dumbasses are working late, seeing Andy laid out like a feast and Brad devouring him. Andy’d thought about it before, of course he had, he’s only human, but in the way you think about Heath Ledger in Brokeback Mountain fucking you tragically while the fucking sheep or cows or whatever frolic outside. A fantasy that hits some formative shit, configured so everything goes well, so that you live in a fundamentally different universe than your actual life. 

Brad’s sliding his hand down the back of Andy’s pants when Andy shoves him, gentle, and Brad steps back, hands up immediately. “We’re not fucking in the test kitchen,” Andy says firmly, and Brad’s mouth makes a little o as he nods, a beat behind. “Get your shit, I’ll get us a lyft.”

Andy tries not to look at Brad as he gets his fancy leather backpack, as they stand hip-to-hip in the elevator, as Brad holds the door open for Andy as they step into the not-quite-crisp October night air. Brad’s got sweatstains on his armpit, his giant fucking shoulders practically obscene as the t-shirt stretches across them, and Andy’s just trying to hold it together. 

Andy pointedly looks out the window when he slides into the lyft. He can sense Brad’s hand sliding over, but he’s not going to fuck up his lyft rating for this. He’s not. But Brad’s arms are long enough to reach across the seat and then some, and he keeps moving, until he reaches Andy. Andy expects him to grab his inner thigh, try for his dick, but Brad slides down his leg instead, to where Andy’s hand is gripping his knee. He peels Andy’s hand off, finger by finger, and Andy’s suddenly aware of how clammy his palms are as Brad interlaces their hands, careful. 

It feels like Andy’s heart is hammering loudly enough for Brad to hear it over the quiet hip hop on the radio, but Andy knows that’s just anxiety. He consciously relaxes his hand, tries not to think about how completely Brad’s hand envelopes his. He keeps his eyes on the Hudson as they travel up the West Side Highway, the familiar rhythm of pier and darkness, the lights of Jersey shining faintly. 

Thinking about Jersey means thinking about Brad’s apartment, how Brad insisted on cooking the whole crew dinner when they went out there to fry a turkey, standing by the grill flipping bison burgers in his stupid sunhat and delegating Andy to the salad, the almost-shy way Brad led Andy through the apartment when he needed to pee. It’s entirely too much to think about right now, when they’re gonna fuck tonight and be coworkers again in the morning. 

Andy brings himself back to the present with some effort, but the present’s no picnic either. Brad’s rubbing his giant thumb in sweeping motions on the back of Andy’s palm, in sync with his breath. 

It’s only a few minutes more until the guy pulls up in front of Andy’s apartment. Andy pulls out, “Thanks,” yanks open the door and pulls himself out, but Brad’s right behind him, saying, “Have a good night, man,” still holding Andy’s hand. Literally what the fuck is happening -- has Brad never had a one night stand before?

Oh my god, Andy realizes, as he finally pulls his hand away as they stand in the doorway, Brad leaning against the brownstone facade, his head almost touching the top of the doorframe. Brad’s never had a one night stand before. He was fucking married, he talks fondly about his high school girlfriend, he’s never had anything but tender committed vanilla penis in vagina sex, and now he’s going through a post-divorce crisis and Andy was the closest available gay guy still dumb enough to fuck a straight dude. Andy jams his key into the lock with a little more force than necessary, and it won’t fucking go in.

“You good?” Brad asks, still leaning against the doorway. And Andy made fun of his sister’s Jordan Catalano thing. 

“Fine,” Andy huffs out, and Brad steps in a little closer, slides his hand to Andy’s jaw and tips it up, kisses him so sweetly. Every racing though flies out of Andy’s head, replaced with the warmth of Brad’s lips and the calluses of his fingertips.

When Brad pulls away, smiling at Andy, Andy can’t help but trace his finger up Brad’s bare forearm. It’s not going to get any less awkward if they stop now; Andy might as well enjoy what he has, as long as he has it.

Andy slides the key back into the lock, and it glides in, turns smoothly. They stumble up the stairs, and god, Andy could suck his dick right there on the landing, but he’s stumbled past too many dudes hooking up in the stairway to do it himself.

The lock on Andy’s door sticks a little, and Andy lets out a nervous, gay giggle. Brad laughs too, as Andy jiggles the lock. “I could get some oil, loosen it up for you,” Brad offers, and when Andy raises his eyebrow, Brad blushes. “WD-40!” he protests, and Andy smirks.

Brad fills up Andy’s entire room, and then some, like a giant stepping into a well-decorated dollhouse. Andy has friends over plenty, but Brad’s steps away from his bed, his head at the height of Andy’s decorative shelves, and his whole presence is undeniable. There’s a pause where they look at each other, tension billowing out to fill every inch, every decorative pot, and then Brad pivots, drops to his knees in front of a stack of books, tilts his head so he can read the titles.

“Do you want water?” Andy offers. “A beer?” He can’t sit there and watch Brad look at his shit, try and figure out what he’s thinking. 

“Sure,” Brad says. “Whatever you’re having, I trust you.”

Andy escapes into the kitchen, a whole six feet away. He stands at the counter, tries to focus on the feeling of the fake-marble underneath his hands. In, two, three, four, hold, two, three, four, out, two, three, four. He’s fine. He’ll finish the wine left over from his Sunday dinner party, pour a glass for Brad, give him a blowjob, fall asleep in his halo of warmth. Wash the sheets next weekend. It’ll be fine.

He pours the wine into two glasses, hands only shaking a little. When he walks back into the room, Brad’s sitting on his red chair, elbows on his knees, reading Walden. He looks so at home it’s hard for Andy to breathe for a second, and he just rests the glass on Brad’s knee.

Brad looks up, barely, at him. Sitting, he’s almost the same height as Andy standing. “I’ve never read it,” Brad says. “Figured I could try to start.”

“He’s kind of a douche,” Andy says, “But he’s got some good stuff to say.”

Brad laughs, takes the wine from Andy’s hand, their fingers brushing. He takes a sip, closing his eyes to concentrate on the taste. Andy takes a gulp, breathing in and out, steadying himself. “That’s nice,” Brad says. “Chilean?”

“Argentinian,” Andy says. “You don’t even like wine, don’t pretend.”

“I’m expanding my palette,” Brad says, looking up at Andy. His curls are mussed from Andy’s fingers, hat forgotten in the walk-in, and Andy can’t resist, puts his wine on the side table and slides onto Brad’s lap. The chair’s not really big enough for Brad alone, let alone Andy too, but Brad puts his drink on the floor and slides his hands to Andy’s hips, keeping him stable until Andy’s knees tuck in next to Brad’s hips. 

It feels for a second like his first boyfriend: that moment of shock that his body, which couldn’t throw a ball or a punch or even a frisbee, could be looked at with such naked want. Andy’s mostly gotten over that: he knows he’s hot, works hard and feels at home in his body in a way his teen self couldn’t even imagine, but Brad’s mouth is half open, his eyes sweeping up and down Andy’s body, his fingers tight on Andy’s sides, and it’s intoxicating. “Hey, buddy,” Brad says, exactly as fucking dumb as ever, and Andy leans down to kiss him, a helpless smile on his face.

Brad’s hand strokes in big circles, up and down Andy’s back, languid like he could do it all night. Andy feels so contained in the nicest way, Brad’s arms encircling him, his strong thighs underneath Andy’s ass, and he trails kisses to stupid places, to Brad’s earlobe and his chin, dots a kiss on his eyelid. Andy had thought about putting on a record, but he’s happy he didn’t, that he won’t miss a single sharp inhale or murmur, the sound Brad makes when Andy runs his nails up Brad’s side.

They make out like teens in an artsy TV show. Brad pushes up Andy’s shirt, but whines when Andy pulls away to tug it off. Once it’s off, he slides his hand to Andy’s shoulder, right at the juncture of his neck, thumb in the hollow, right by the tendon where Andy keeps all his tension.

“Definitely would get more views for this,” Brad says, and Andy laughs, squirming a little under Brad’s intense gaze. He hasn’t waxed since his last time out on Fire Island, two months ago, and he knows there’s a thin carpet of hair on his chest. God, he’s sure Brad’s never had sex with anyone with any body hair.

But Brad takes his other hand to Andy’s stomach, runs his hand up his happy trail, pushing the hair the wrong way, Andy’s stomach quivering underneath his touch. Brad’s eyes are dark under the lamplight, tracing the edges of Andy’s muscles, sliding his hand up to Andy’s pecs. Andy swallows, prepared to tell him that they’re not fucking tits, but Brad just traces a careful line around the edge of his pec, up to his throat. He pauses there, and Andy’s frozen, completely lost, at sea clinging onto the fucking door from Titanic. Brad slides his hand back down Andy’s side, wrapping his hand broad around Andy’s chest and narrowing at his waist. 

Andy tugs at Brad’s shirt, and it breaks the spell, Brad lifting his hands up willingly. Andy wants to stare, too, but Brad pulls him in for another kiss. “I’m not a FitSquare guy,” he says into the kiss, then bites Andy’s lip as if to distract him.

Andy’s sex-stupid brain takes a couple seconds to even hear that, and another minute to unscamble it. By that time, Brad’s pulled them flush together, Andy’s hands wrapped around Brad’s neck, trying to only hump Brad’s front a little. “Do you mean CrossFit?” he asks, breathless and incredulous.

“CrossFit, FitSquare, TriangleRun, you know what I mean,” Brad complains. “I’ve got some meat on my bones.”

“I like meat,” Andy says inanely, then runs his hand down Brad’s big, warm chest, the solidity of him beneath Andy.

“Good,” Brad says, a little breathless as Andy explores, his fingertips soft on Brad’s chest, the slight curve of his stomach. 

“God, Andy,” Brad says when Andy traces along the waistband of his jeans, his accent elongating o into awe. “I—“

“I need you to fuck me,” Andy interrupts. Hearing Brad say his name like that ripped a hole in his heart, aching with longing, and he needs to fill it with dick.

Brad’s hands go to Andy’s ass instantly, lifting him up as he stands tall, and Andy’s legs wrap around him, locked around his waist. Brad’s leaning back to compensate for Andy’s weight, and when Andy leans in to kiss him, they almost overbalance for a second. Brad grabs tighter at Andy’s ass, rights them with a little oof, kisses Andy back as he walks them to the bed. Andy can’t help himself, he loves it, looping his arms around Brad’s neck, mussing his curls. 

The bed bangs into Brad’s knees, and he tips Andy onto it, Andy dragging him down to land on top of Andy with a little thump. They giggle at each other, stupid and breathless, Andy biting his ear a little too hard. 

Andy snakes an arm out from underneath Brad, pulls open the bedside drawer. Brad looks over, and his eyes get big. “I can—” Andy says, but Brad bites his inner arm, hard, then pulls his wrist up above his head. He easily reaches over to the drawer, carefully skirts around the other stuff in the drawer to grab the lube. 

Brad peels off his jeans, looming huge over Andy, then starts tugging down his boxers. Andy tries not to get a little panicky -- his dick, his hairy ass, his dick -- but his stomach is betraying his sharp intakes of breath, and Brad pauses, boxers halfway down his thighs, looks up at Andy. Andy’s looking down at him, his soft mouth, his giant hands encircling Andy’s thighs, and their eyes meet for what feels like a long, long time. Brad leans down, kisses Andy’s hipbone, the curve of his lower belly as Andy breathes out, slow. There’s no teeth, really, or suction, just soft open-mouthed kisses. Andy’s hand was gripping the sheet, but he relaxes it, and Brad laces their fingers together as he pulls Andy’s boxers off the rest of the way, kisses the back of his palm. 

“Okay?” Brad asks, and Andy nods, unable to form words. Andy drops one knee sideways, knows it’s the best way, and Brad nods, quick and decisive, like he just tasted something and decided it needs more fucking sumac. 

The first touch is gentle, too gentle, and Andy whines, pushes his hips back into Brad. Brad makes some nonsensical shushing noise, and Andy needs more, now. Brad keeps it slow, but he pushes in, and Andy relaxes into the touch, finally able to just feel without thought. He’s so hard but it feels distant, all he wants is Brad, Brad’s fingers, Brad’s dick. Brad crooks his fingers, and Andy keens, eyes screwed shut, as Brad does it again.

“Now,” Andy demands, as soon as he knows he can take it. Brad hums, pushing his fingers into Andy, slow, and Andy claws down on his wrist, says again, shaky but sure, “Now.”

Brad, mulish, leans down to suck the head of Andy’s dick, and Andy’s hips buck up, desperate. Brad pulls his hand away from Andy, lays his forearm across Andy’s hips, and sucks down a little more, no more than a few inches but so fucking good. But Andy needs more, and he grabs at Brad’s hair, tugs him up, until he’s looking down at Brad’s eyelashes, his wet mouth, and demanding, “Fuck me, c’mon, Brad.”

Brad’s eyes go wide, and he lets Andy tug him up, threading his arm through Andy’s leg and hooking it up. Andy lets himself go boneless: he thought he might have to coach Brad through this, but Brad’s moving confidently, and Andy won’t think about why or how, is just gonna take it. Brad brushes Andy’s mouth with his thumb, and when Andy opens his eyes, Brad says, “Don’t get quiet on me now, okay bud?”

Andy nods, sucks Brad’s thumb into his finger a little, savoring the weight and the whorls. Brad pulls out, brushes his thumb along Andy’s cheek as he finally pushes in. 

It’s always unlike anything else, the way Andy feels so full there’s no room for him inside, and Andy cries out. Brad’s still moving too fucking slow, and Andy has no leverage, just tilting his hips to try and get him deeper faster. “Brad,” Andy breathes out, desperate, and Brad inhales sharply, starts fucking in with long, steady strokes. 

Andy barely has control of his hands, but he manages to land one on Brad’s back, pull him in so they’re completely pressed together. Andy doesn’t know how Brad’s getting leverage, doesn’t care, is just floating blissfully on sensation. He can’t stop making little needy noises, nosing into Brad’s neck. 

Everything runs together, waves of sensation crashing onto the shore, and Andy doesn’t think he can feel anymore until Brad slides his hand up to Andy’s face, his finger on Andy’s bottom lip. Andy sucks on it, and Brad murmurs, “Baby,” pulls it away to reach down and feels where he’s pushing into Andy.

It’s so much, it’s almost too much, but Brad pushes inside and Andy cries out, grabs his own dick, not sure if he should move or just try to hang on. “Good, god, yeah baby,” Brad says, nonsensical, but it’s enough, Andy jerking himself off pumping against Brad’s stomach, making high pitched noises, not cool at all. Brad shoves in and Andy comes, gasping, feeling like he’s been hit by a truck. 

His leg is still around Brad, and he tightens it, willing Brad not to pull out. Brad doesn’t, just kisses him, gentling the pace again until Andy’s breathing more steadily, his hips angling up again. Andy lets himself be kissed, open and easy, Brad’s big arms framing his face, and he turns just enough to bite his bicep.

“Watch it, Golden Boy,” Brad says, and Andy giggles, bites again and sucks a little, feeling Brad’s hips jerk inside him, then relents, offering himself up for another kiss. Brad sucks on his bottom lip, rolls his hips, and keeps it slow, controlled. Andy doesn’t want control; he wants Brad to lose it as thoroughly as he did. So he slides his hand down Brad’s back, kisses him dirty, then looks up at him through his eyelashse, begs “Please” into the kiss.

“Fuck,” Brad gasps, and finally lets go, fucking into Andy hard and fast, as Andy plays with his hair, delighted. 

“Brad,” Andy says, gasping into his neck, and Brad shoves in and comes, messy and spectacular. He pulls out, careful, looking dazed, and Andy shoves every thought away, just wraps himself around Brad, head on his warm beating heart. It’s soft and quiet and dark, Brad’s hand moving gently up and down his back, and Andy drifts off before he notices anything else.

*

There’s a gentle rumbling when he wakes up, like the sound of the above-ground subway a few blocks from his first apartment in Brooklyn. It’s dark and warm, and Andy comes back to himself slowly, only realizing when his leg hits something that it’s not a train, it’s Brad snoring softly. 

Of course Brad snores, Andy thinks, even as part of him finds it cute. Andy’s awake enough now to realize that he’s starving, his mouth feels gross, he’s not even thinking about all the dried come on and in him, and he needs to piss. It’s a real comedown from the endorphin-haze pre-nap, and thats just the physical side. 

Brad’s giant body is a wall next to him, and he has to worm out of the covers. He’s straddling Brad’s hips, leaning his arms over to reach the edge of the bed, when Brad blinks awake, a sleepy smile up at Andy. “Hey,” he says, voice slow and sleepy, hands coming up to stroke Andys hipbones. 

“I gotta pee,” Andy says, and Brad just nods, helps him over and half-trips following him out of bed. Andy grabs a pair of boxers from his drawer, pulls them on, but Brad doesn’t move to get his from the floor, just stands there watching Andy. He follows him to the bathroom, rubs his eyes at the sudden brightness. In the light, Andy can see the long scar running down his thigh interrupting the light dusting of curly hair. Andy wants to get on his knees, kiss it, know whether Brad was scared, what he thought about in that helicopter ride, did his mom cry. 

Instead, he pulls out his dick, tries to relax enough to pee. He knows it’s not a middle school locker room, but that doesn’t mean his body does. Brads leaning on the sink, dick hanging loose, approximately six inches from Andy. Andy finally closes his eyes, starts to pee, and immediately hears a clatter, glass hitting porcelain, then Brad fumbling, “I got it!” 

Fucking Christ. 

He finishes, bumps Brad’s hip so he can wash his hands, then leaves as Brad starts to pee. 

He fills up two big glasses of water, wipes off the come on his stomach with a wet paper towel. By the time Brad comes out, still naked, Andy’s hopped up on the counter. 

“I’m starving, man, you hungry?” Brad says, and Andy nods. He only turned on one light, and he’s still sleepy, leaning his head back against the cabinet, kicking his feet idly. “Where’s your apron?”

“Hanging in the cabinet,” Andy says. Brad has to loosen the straps, and he looks ridiculous, ass out as he pokes around Andy’s fridge, talking softly to the eggs and the mushrooms. “Just gonna give these a rinsey-poo, chop these up, bum bum bum,” he narrates, pulling out herbs and shallots, some garlic. It feels exactly like the test kitchen, but here Andy lets himself watch, doesn’t pull his gaze away. 

Guys always want Andy to cook for them, or their food is basically inedible, so Andy ends up doing it, mostly. It’s nice to just relax; Andy doesn’t think highly of Brad’s food handling safety skills, but he’s a great cook, instincts honed by decades of practice. 

Brad flips the omelette with a flick of his wrist, and it spins delicately, lands back in place. “Nice job,” Andy says, and Brad looks up, happy but a little shy, like he just got caught out at something. 

“You can tell me if it’s under salted,” he says, plating it with Andy’s nicely toasted bread, more herbs arranged across it. It reminds Andy a little of kuku sabzi, not as green or fluffy but made just for him. His mom would make it for him when he was sick, or pretending to be, and they’d watch old movies together. She always insisted he eat some greens when all he wanted was more rice. 

Andy takes a bite, and closes his eyes to really taste it. The mushrooms were cooked a little before the eggs, and they’ve got a deep, almost-crisp flavor, the herbs adding brightness. Brad used different spices than Andy would but they work together in new ways, Andy trying to chase each flavor across his tongue. “It’s perfect,” he says, and Brad smiles, takes a bite of his own. 

They eat quietly, Brad leaning against the counter still in his dumb apron, Andy leaning against his shoulder. Brad puts their plates in the sink, starts to run the water, but Andy leans across his tiny kitchen and tugs him back. “Leave it,” he says, and Brad turns back around, eyes sweeping up and down Andy’s chest. Sitting on the counter, Andy’s taller than Brad, and he leans down slowly, kissing him, hand on the back of Brad’s neck to feel him tilting up. 

They make out for a bit, lazy, and Andy’s dick is starting to get half-interested, but most he wants to slide back in bed, drape himself over Brad again, claim him for the rest of the night. Brad’s hands feel like they’re everywhere, up and down Andy’s arms, sweeping over his spine and the small of his back, and Andy’s thighs wrap easily around Brad’s torso. Brad yawns into the kiss, and Andy laughs at Brad shoves him. “It’s 2:30!” he protests, but Andy can’t stop giggling, head tucked into Brad’s shoulder, the crook of his neck. 

“Time for bed, old man,” Andy agrees, and Brad shoves him, but then helps him off the counter, holding his hand on the way back to bed. Brad crawls into bed first, and Andy can barely look at the way he fits, rolls one of the pillows under his head, arm stuck outside the cover. “Welcome to sleepy town,” he says, absolutely inane, and Andy can’t watch anymore, has to slip in beside him, curve around his big warm body. Brad falls asleep almost immediately, his breaths deep and even, his mouth slack, and Andy just watches him, aching softly in the quiet darkness of the room. 

*

Andy wakes up to the first rays of sunlight coming through his window. Brad’s starfished across the bed, head half-buried into the pillow, facing Andy. His mouth is soft and pink in the golden light, his lashes long against his cheek. Andy wants to reach out, trace a finger so gentle across his nose, his eyebrows. 

He gets out of bed and gets in the shower, instead. Brad wouldn’t even fit in his shower, would duck his head and knock over every single carefully-arranged bottle. He tries to be mechanical as he washes off, thinking about his pesto ramen, what he’ll do at the gym tonight, anything but last night or what will happen this morning. 

He dresses in the bathroom, like he’s the hookup at someone else’s apartment, and does the dishes in the sink, makes two cups of coffee and a piece of toast for Brad. He wants, for just a second, to make Brad his dad’s eggs. He has all the ingredients, like always. But there’s no point in lingering in fantasy; he'll just make himself some scrambled eggs in the test kitchen. 

He takes a few sips of coffee to fortify himself, then goes back into the room with Brad’s coffee. Brad’s still asleep, broad back smooth against Andy’s white sheets, and Andy gently shakes his shoulders, half whispering his name. Brad turns further into the pillow, and Andy shakes him a little harder, until Brad starts blinking awake. Andy puts the coffee on the end table so he can fiddle his hands together until Brad wakes up. It’s a slow process, and Andy can’t just stand there, turns around to sort out the shit on his coffee table. 

“Andy?” Brad says, finally, and Andy doesn’t let himself analyze the tone. 

“Hey,” Andy says. “We should leave in like fifteen minutes. There’s some toast in the kitchen if you want it.”

“Mmmmm,” Brad says, still sleepy. “Cool. I smell coffee?”

“Next to you,” Andy says. His shoulders are still up to his ears, and he turns, abruptly, to get back to the kitchen. He can’t hear Brad rustling in the covers, and he can’t see his dick again. 

_This is why people don’t live in studios,_ Andy tells himself. _So they have somewhere to run to. _

Brad stumbles around the bathroom, the bedroom, but nothing shatters and it seems fine. Andy drinks his coffee; at the last minute, he slices up an avocado for Brad, drizzles it with chili flakes and lime juice. When Brad appears again, he’s wearing pants, which is a miracle. His hair looks dumb. Andy looks down at his coffee. 

“Morning,” Brad says, easy as ever, standing inches from Andy. He leans down, but Andy turns quickly, almost a flinch, dumps the rest of his coffee in the sink, almost splashing himself. He stands still, until he can’t felt Brad’s breath on his neck anymore. 

Andy washes his cup, thoroughly, sets it to dry. 

“Thanks for breakfast,” Brad says, none of his usual joviality. “You’re not hungry?”

“Nah, I’ll eat at work,” Andy says. Brad is eating quickly, drinking his coffee. It’s excruciatingly awkward, so Andy puts on a record: background sound and something to do with his hands, all at once. Brad washes his plate and cup, no murmur or narration, while Andy picks out a jacket, black leather armor enough to keep his heart in.

Brad usually says something about the jacket, something dumb about his motorcycle or at least a raised eyebrow, but whe Andy announces, “We should probably go,” he just nods.

Brad’s still in just a t-shirt, and it’s colder today, a crunch of fall in the air. Andy doesn’t have anything that would even go across his shoulders, so. They’re quiet on the walk to the train, seamlessly walking around little kids in school uniforms and fancy dogs on their morning walks. Andy smiles at Brad about one particularly well-groomed blond dog and his even more well-groomed blond owner, but Brad doesn’t notice.

Andy swipes in at 23rd, and hears a thump behind him as Brad crashes into the unmoving turnstile. “Shit,” Brad says, “insufficient fair.” He’s turning to get more, but there’s a crowd of people behind him, and it’s a mess. 

“I got you,” Andy says, handing back his metrocard. Their hands brush, but then the train starts screeching into the station, and Andy moves, trying to claim a spot for him and Brad by the doors before they open.

They squish into the car, packed as always, and Andy’s face ends up in Brad’s armpit. Brad hands him back his metrocard, forearms brushing, says, “Thanks, dude.” Andy nods, pops his AirPods in, goes back to staring blankly past Brad’s armpit as Brad holds on. There’s no place for Andy to hold on unless he plasters himself even more completely against Brad, so he just sets his feet wide, focuses on his balance. 

It works for a couple stops, but at Chambers the train jerks to a stop, just as Andy’s trying not to sniff Brad like fucking Chris Morocco, see if he can detect an aroma of sweat or come. He falls into Brad’s chest as Brad catches him, and it feels so, so right and good, Brad’s arms coming up to catch him. They stand for a couple breaths, Andy breathing shallowly, until someone with a backpack shoves past them and they move apart. 

The car empties out, so Andy moves to another pole, trying to catch his breath. Brad’s not looking at him, or at his phone, just reading the ads above him, forehead wrinkling at the dumb wordplay. 

“We’re next stop,” Andy says, and Brad nods, shifts his shoulders to face the doors. They get out at Cortlandt, walk through the shiny-new, soulless station, joining the streams of people moving with a New York efficiency Andy can’t ever fully embrace.

As soon as Andy gets up the stairs and sees their building shining brightly in the morning sun, his throat fills with panic. He can’t walk in with Brad, watch him chat with the security guards and the pretty receptionist, wonder if people are looking at him, be in the fucking eternal elevator ride up with him. “I gotta go to the market,” he says, stopping suddenly. “Forgot something for a recipe, I’ll see you at the office?”

“Andy,” Brad says, sounding wretched. They’re blocking the sidewalk, people streaming around them giving them dirty looks, but Andy can’t move. “Please don’t. It doesn’t have to be a big deal.”

“It’s not!” Andy says. “It’s chill. I just have to get,” trying to think of something not stocked in the kitchen, but all his brain is providing is dick and Brad looks sad. “Pork loin.”

“You don’t like pork loin,” Brad says.

“That's why I forgot it! I’ll see you later,” Andy babbles, knowing he sounds idiotic, unable to stop himself. He bolts like it’s sixth grade recess.

When he looks back, almost at the corner, Brad’s still standing there, a giant in the city, looking bare without a hat or jacket in a sea of suits. Andy swallows, keeps walking.

***

**Author's Note:**

> this is basically the first scene in grace's spectacular final paragraph of [this post](https://baking-soda.tumblr.com/post/190543863952/hello-do-you-have-any-thoughts-on-bradandy), and obviously it ends happily but i have NOT written that part yet lol sorry. i'm [here](https://veryspecificfantasies.tumblr.com/) on tumblr if u ever want to send an ask/tell me you've made a brandy supercut (PLEASE).


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